


The Bond That Bleeds

by sunwisher



Series: The Master Of Our Fate [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Shadowhunters, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Lore Divergence, Eventual Smut, Fluff, High Warlock! Seonghwa, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Woosan, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parabatai! Woosan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher/pseuds/sunwisher
Summary: “Jeez, someone’s in a hurry,” San says, but he moves out of the way, pushing the door even wider and flinches at the strong odour of ichor that hits him in the face. He looks down and groans, his boots already soaked in the pool of ichor gathered on the floor.Wooyoung pulls his witchlight out, the bright white glow illuminating the darkness.“Did the demons have an orgy here or what?” Wooyoung says, his voice echoing in the emptiness of the warehouse.“I didn’t need that mental picture in my head,” San says, grimacing at the thought.“Well, you have it anyway. Be grateful that I didn’t get graphic,” Wooyoung chastises, smacking him on his bicep. San hates how he wants to feel the sting for an eternity.Or, secrets swirl in the air around San and Wooyoung with their parabatai bond acting up out of nowhere, and nothing is as it seems in the realm where the Shadowworld and the Downworld collide.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Series: The Master Of Our Fate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669105
Comments: 51
Kudos: 117





	1. Indicium

**Author's Note:**

> Hello rockstars,
> 
> This is the first installment of a five-part Shadowhunters AU series that I've been stewing over for a while~ I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

✸♉✸♉✸ **The Hidden Shadowhunter Codex - The Prophecy Dictating The Way Of The Oath** ✸♉✸♉✸

The heavenly fire burned bright, tendrils of glorious white flames levitating in the atmosphere, overlooking the two souls bound together by her flames. The two Nephilim were born to be together, incapable of being severed by any bond, merely the human implications of the one entwining their souls as one. 

Their hearts would beat as one. 

Their breaths would tangle together as one. 

Their souls would carve out an eternity together, the metronome signalling their existence beating at a frequency that only Heaven would see. 

When the time comes, their bond would bleed, threatening to rip past every boundary they would forcefully craft to hold their hearts captive. 

They would bleed unconditionally and uncontrollably for each other.

They would be unstoppable, heaven’s gaze perpetually focused upon them. 

Pain would rain down upon them like her own form itself, one test after the other, but no child of hers would bow before blood, certainly not their own.

If perseverance is within reach, they would find a serenity their souls could dwell in forever.

 _Descensus facilis Averno est,_ she whispers _._

Hell fire would cradle and lead them before she would.

Hold your breaths, Nephilim. The test has only begun.

Should you choose to emerge victorious, hold close to the rune you would mistake as your choice, the one that has been written in your fate millenniums before you were born, the one upon your chests that condemns you to the blessing of parting at nothing but Death’s behest from the soul of the other.

Hold and hold fast and she would carry you through the prophecy for the way of the oath. 

✸♉✸♉✸

  
  


San shoves his hands deeper down his pockets, his skin clammy and wet from the rain which had begun pouring on the way home. His feet protest against the effort he demands of it, but as fond as he is of the rain, he can’t afford to bask in the calm, in the sea of sounds and the ambience created by the water pouring down on him. 

Especially now. 

Wooyoung will wake up soon and check on him, he can feel it in his gut, the rune on top of his chest thrumming with the weight of the bond tying them together. The last thing he wants to hear is his parabatai’s loud and unquellable whining so early in the morning. He wills his feet to cooperate to reach the Institute as quickly as possible.

San sighs at his own foolishness which had contributed to him overlooking the stele which had been lying on his table. A stamina rune could have helped matters much. Had it been any other day, it would have been fine, but they had gone on another hunt the night before, and San’s muscles were still screaming from the demon’s aggressive efforts to bring him down. A simple iratze would have fixed it, but Wooyoung had had other conquests planned for the night and San had been too bitter to allow the stele to touch his skin when it had been longing for his parabatai and no one else. 

San lets out a defeated sigh at the thought.

Just another block, San thinks. Chances were high that Wooyoung had already figured out that San sneaked out at dawn. If he had sensed his absence, San would be hard pressed to attempt to cover up his reason for going to the park again. Wooyoung knew that he didn’t go there unless things were getting a little beyond control and as if a divine sign to render him even more immobile in front of Wooyoung, San also couldn’t lie to save his life, especially to his parabatai who was like a very persuasive puppy.

It was an abysmal combination, one that wasn’t in San’s favor.

Not that much of the whole situation was in his favor at all.

The rain is merciless as it hits his body, water pelting down on him like bullets, threatening to carve his skin and submerge beneath the layers. San pulls the lapels of his jacket together to shield his torso from getting wet in the rain, his body already succumbing to the cold. The thick fabric has already been soaked through rendering his efforts in vain.

Quicker, San chants internally. 

San’s gaze focuses on the ground, the steady cadence of the water splitting and refracting off of the concrete as it hits the ground rhythmically, water disappearing into the squiggly cracks where the concrete has split. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t see the body in front of him until it collides with his. He doesn’t have to look up to recognize the person, the arms of the other man catching him as he stumbles to the side, nearly faceplanting. 

It is only muscle memory at this point to go willingly into Wooyoung’s arms, not just for fear of the front row of his teeth or the bridge of his nose, but merely because it’s Wooyoung. 

Distantly, San registers the absence of rain hitting his body, Wooyoung’s one hand cradling a large red umbrella that keeps the rain from assaulting him further. The fearless rune on top of his wrist peeks out from underneath the sleeve of his sleep shirt.

The black ink is a beautiful contrast against Wooyoung’s golden skin. San has seen it a million times before, but he has always been fond of the way the runes look on Wooyoung’s skin so he can’t help the way his gaze zooms in on it. He stares at the mirroring one on top of his wrist and looks up at Wooyoung with a small smile.

“You could have woken me up if you wanted to sneak out, dumbass,” Wooyoung says, his words stiff despite the insult he tacks on, but he doesn’t sound unkind. There is a worried slope to the curve of his lips even if he’s smiling a little, fondness palpable on his face. San draws his gaze away from focusing on the soft pink of his lips, keeping a groan of frustration to himself.

San really should have gone back earlier. It is clear that Wooyoung is attempting to stage an intervention. Normally, he wouldn’t wake up this early unless Yeosang was banging on his door, not for any Institute-related activities or hunting errands, but merely for the sake of annoying the life out of Wooyoung.

A grumpy Wooyoung was lethal to San’s heart with his ever-present pout and adorable squinting which Wooyoung always argued could pass as a glare, his hand placed on his quirked hip, sass amped up to the maximum. It was also interesting that he seemed to be always prepared to talk Yeosang’s ears off. Why Yeosang with his impeccable self-preservation instincts would initiate a whining fest and engage Wooyoung is something San has never understood, but it’s a whole another thing that their yelling in the morning is something San thoroughly enjoyed waking up to, despite all his feigned complaints. 

Wooyoung nudges him in the shoulder, probably figuring that San has already zoned out. He looks offended that San has done it so blatantly in his presence, what San knows to be sharp words probably already gathering at the tip of his tongue for sneaking out and for being absent-minded.

San doesn’t want to argue with him this early in the morning.

San would prefer it greatly if they didn’t argue at all, but slight altercations that ended in a few tears had become a habit over time to them.

“You’re zoning out. Why are you zoning out?” Wooyoung whines, nudging San’s shoulder again, even if their feet move in sync, like their bodies can’t help but mirror the other, despite what their hearts have decided. 

San huffs playfully, placing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Why, Shadowhunter Jung, don’t I even have the right to zone out in your presence?”

Wooyoung whines again, the sound going straight to his gut. “No, you dumbass, you don’t.”

Wooyoung turns to him and pokes his nose with a finger, his nose scrunching up, his eyes turning into little crescents. San feels like someone has punched the air out of his lungs at the sight even if it is something he has been seeing for a long time and should have gotten used to. 

“Harsh,” San says, smiling despite the ache lodged in his chest because Wooyoung with his bright aura and even brighter smiles is his parabatai, his soulmate, his best friend, the one person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, the one he wants to fight beside for an eternity and beyond if the Angel allows him to. He’s the only person San trusts with his whole life. In this world where voyance runes have hidden them from the mundanes, where demons were a reality he fought every day, Wooyoung was someone San would die for and if it came down to it, he wouldn’t bat an eyelash to kill for him.

“Now, stop being distracted and answer my question,” Wooyoung says, complaint clear in his voice.

“You didn’t ask me one.”

San expects the smack on his bicep and steps away from his parabatai in an attempt to dodge, but Wooyoung stretches over and does it anyway before pulling him in closer than before, grumbling under his breath about the rain and San catching a cold.

San wishes Wooyoung wouldn’t make it so hard for him.

“You know what I mean, Sannie. Tell me why you sneaked out to the park at ass o’ clock in the morning without me.”

San tries to be subtle as he walks a bit away from Wooyoung, still under the umbrella but not so close to Wooyoung under the guise of trying to look at him without twisting his neck so much. Wooyoung catches on to the action and curls an arm around his bicep, pulling him closer, the wet fabric of San’s jacket absorbing Wooyoung’s warmth.

“You’re going to get wet,” San warns, trying to pull his arm away.

“And?” Wooyoung asks, an eyebrow quirked, clearly displeased, a challenge clear on his face.

San sighs in frustration, but he doesn’t fight the touch, giving in quickly. 

“I heard you come in late at night. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep,” San says, trying to maintain eye contact sideways despite his heart threatening to give out, its weak defenses crumbling at the familiarity and the need to be honest to his parabatai. San grabs the handle of the umbrella so that Wooyoung can cling to him comfortably with both his arms.

“I tried to be quiet,” Wooyoung mumbles, frowning, lips jutting out in a natural pout.

San shakes his head. “I know you did, but you know I’m a light sleeper.”

San isn’t lying. Waking up at the slightest of disturbances had always been something he couldn’t help with despite all his efforts to sleep peacefully through the night and as much as Wooyoung tried to be quiet returning from his dalliances in the clubs, San always heard him, unfailingly. More often than not, however, he would already be awake, the bond thrumming under the weight of a kind of pleasure that wasn’t his and despite San’s attempts to manipulate his mind from straying towards thoughts of Wooyoung getting railed by a stranger, it refused to do him even this particular courtesy. 

Wooyoung didn’t need to know that San had been staying up to make sure that it wasn’t too late when the other returned, prepared to take his crossbow and seraph blade to scout the area if he took longer than he usually did. 

That was another thing they did. Wooyoung always came back home. Always.

He never slept over at any of his one night stands' places. No matter how the night went, no matter how long he spent curled up in another’s arms, he would always come home. San would know, because he would feign sleep, smothering an expression his face couldn’t decide on against his pillow, stuck between one of pure agony and one of immense fondness, as Wooyoung would leave his boots outside and open the door to his room softly, leaning on the doorway to look at San before he’d walk away, the soft thud of his socked feet on the floor a lullaby that would rock San to sleep on those nights.

“You don’t look like you’ve slept much though,” Wooyoung says, clinging tightly to the topic on hand, one of his hands relaxing from around San’s bicep and coming up to cradle his face.

San wants to lean into the touch, but he keeps himself from giving in, staying frozen in place before he shakes his head again.

“Just some nightmares. No big deal,” San explains, keeping his voice light, wanting nothing more than for Wooyoung to stop being so concerned for him all the time. His heart would surely give out soon, if the other carried on with these gentle touches and concerned proddings.

They were parabatai. 

Nothing more. 

There was no room for anything more, but every time Wooyoung looked at him like this, San couldn’t help but allow himself to dream before the reality of what the bond that linked them forbade would whisper in the recesses of his mind and he would back away as quickly as his heart expanded with his desires.

Wooyoung clearly wants to prod him further, but San throws him a look, one that he hopes conveys how exhausted he is. Wooyoung’s gaze traces the lines of his face before he backs down, shrinking under San’s plea.

“I was wondering if you were upset with me,” Wooyoung says as the rain grows in strength. The statement is delivered much too casually for San to believe in its external levity, the quick side glance Wooyoung gives him cluing him in to the fact that it isn’t as simple as it sounds. San frowns to himself, boot landing a little hard on his next step on the sidewalk. 

“Why would I be upset with you?” San asks, humoring him, keeping a careful eye on Wooyoung.

“For leaving you alone yesterday night?” Wooyoung answers, his voice soft and apologetic.

They had been having dinner when Yeosang had stumbled into the mess, informing them of a pack of Ravener demons that had been reported by a shadowhunter scouting the area. The man had been hurt and had retreated in favor of informing the officials at Institute, leaving the demons to wreak havoc in the area, injuring several Downworlders. San hadn’t wanted to go out, wanting to stay in and pine incessantly for someone who would never be his, but Wooyoung had thrown him a pleading look, his sympathy for the Downworlders making him want to jump headfirst into the hunt.

San had belligerently but unwillingly raised a hand when Yeosang looked around the mess for volunteers for the hunt, looking totally unsurprised at the way only San and Wooyoung’s hands were up. No one wanted to go into a fight with one Ravener demon, much less a whole pack of them, especially if it was the Downworlder’s area.

It had been fairly easy to hunt the demons down, the ichor leaving their tracks glistening even in the shroud of darkness. San had stayed close to Wooyoung, choosing to fight with his seraph blade rather than going for his preferred weapon, his beloved crossbow.

The hunt had been a success. Eight Ravener demons sent back into the void in under an hour.

San was joyous, the adrenaline from the hunt lighting his nerve ends on fire until Wooyoung mentioned that one of the werewolves he kept constantly in touch with, Yunho, had invited him to the nearby club and drop in for a bit. Wooyoung being Wooyoung hadn’t rejected the invitation. 

San didn’t want to have to nurse one drink throughout the night while watching Wooyoung suck face with whoever his choice of pursuit was for the night, so he had waved a hand and walked in the other direction, heading back to the Institute. Admittedly though, Wooyoung didn’t do it very often, but San couldn’t help the pang in his chest every time Wooyoung waved at him from across the dance floor and winked with a subtle smile, a sign that he wouldn’t be coming home with him.

San hadn’t looked back when Wooyoung called for him, just waving his hand once again, grumbling about being tired in a volume he knew would reach Wooyoung despite the distance between them. He’d secretly wished for Wooyoung to run to him and come home with him, but he had heard the sigh of resignation from him and quickened his pace to get away as quickly as he possibly could.

“It’s not like it’s the first time,” San replies, trying but failing to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Wooyoung tenses beside him. “I can stop, if you want me to, San. You always come first, you know that. I know you’re not too fond of the Downworlders, but they’re my friends. However, as much as I love them, you know how I feel about you.”

San does. By the Angel, he wished he didn’t, but the line was too clear, the one he wasn’t meant to cross.

They were bonded by a rune that only screamed brotherhood, a platonic bond that was a consistently painful reminder of how San could never have the man beside him, not the way he wanted. It bore down heavily on his chest cavity and he would often find himself wheezing for breath when Wooyoung was away.

It hurt when Wooyoung was away, but it hurt even more when he was near, when San had to lock his emotions down, rein in the urge to touch even if Wooyoung didn’t have any qualms with doing the same to him, touching freely without knowing the repercussions to his parabatai’s heart.

San briefly wonders if Wooyoung had even an inkling of the way he felt. He hoped he didn’t. 

“It’s alright. Though I wish you wouldn’t fraternize so closely with the Downworlders, it’s something I can’t force you to change. I don’t own you, Woo,” San says. Chasing the way Wooyoung’s expression shifts, his soft features contorting into a frown again, San knows he has said the wrong thing.

“You’re angry with me,” Wooyoung states, like it’s a sudden revelation, his face suddenly serious, the small smile that’s always a perpetually present curve on his face fading, the sparkle in his eyes dying so quickly that San’s heart breaks into pieces and flops to the bottom of his stomach. He shakes his head in immediate denial, but the damage is already done.

The rain is gaining on them and Wooyoung huddles closer to him despite the fact that he’s soaked and upset.

“No, you are. You sound disappointed _and_ angry,” Wooyoung says, accusing.

San shakes his head again. “I’m not. I swear by the Angel, I’m not,” San says quickly.

Wooyoung frees his grip on his bicep, visibly upset. San doesn’t let him take his hands away, keeping his bicep close to his chest, trapping Wooyoung’s arm in the space between.

“Look at me,” San says, balancing the umbrella in one hand and leaning forward a little to meet Wooyoung’s eyes because it hurts seeing him like this, when the frown on his face is something San has actively contributed to.

Wooyoung doesn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the ground, at the water that’s seeping inside San’s boots, the level of the sidewalk falling as they walk down the steep incline.

San sighs. “Woo, hey, look at me,” San tries again and this time he must sound as desperate as he feels because Wooyoung turns to face him.

“What?” He asks, pretending like he is suddenly unaware of what San’s trying to say. 

It takes all of San’s self control to not stare at the exposed line of his throat, the strength rune an inky black against his skin. It’s clear to him that the universe doesn’t want him to live a life without Wooyoung interrupting it in that clueless heartbreaker way of his. It’s just his luck and the totally favorable circumstances that the universe takes the pain to custom weave for him, note the sarcasm, that in the desperation to look at anywhere but Wooyoung’s neck, his eyes choose to land on the black enkeli earring he’s wearing, the one half of a matching pair he’d gotten for them a few months ago.

Talk about the worst coincidences.

The earring had been a custom order San made for the both of them after they’d gone shopping to the jeweller Wooyoung frequented for his trinkets to get something to gift Yeosang for his birthday. San had seen the enkeli earring at the jeweller and had promptly fallen in love with the miniature metallic iteration of the rune. Wooyoung’s favorite color was black and San, being the thoughtful friend he was, had asked for the emerald stone at the top of it to be replaced by a black diamond. San hadn’t even considered asking Wooyoung for his opinion, ordering a pair, one for him, the other for Wooyoung. Wooyoung had only thrown him a look of surprise before he broke into a smile.

All things considered and despite his immense love for the earring, San hasn’t worn it in a while. Not after his mom teased him in her last visit a couple of months ago about how getting the same jewelry as Wooyoung made it even more obvious how married to his parabatai was. The words had been uttered good-naturedly, all in good fun, but that didn’t mean that he spent weeks thinking about the same thing until he came to the decision of not wearing it, convincing himself that seeing Wooyoung wear it was enough.

It wasn’t, but San truly excelled at three things; liking Wooyoung more than he was supposed to, hunting demons and lying to himself.

“You _know_ what,” San says, pointedly, before he can zone out again and make Wooyoung even sadder than he is already. It’s only pure determination and the will power of the angel blood in him which makes him shrug away the distracting thoughts in his head.

“Do I?” Wooyoung asks, catching San off-guard.

San frowns again, eyebrows knitting together as if the mere action would solve all his worries. He knows better, he really does. Unless and until his heart decides to do him a favor, there is no escaping this situation. 

“What do you mean?” San asks. 

The cold is getting to him, settling in his skin even if the rain is not falling on him any more thanks to Wooyoung and his stupid caring self which had decided that carrying the flashiest red umbrella and slipping out of the Institute at six o’clock in the morning in what is probably the most aggressive storm they’ve had in months was the way to go.

San wants to lie on the ground and hope that it swallows him whole. It was so beyond unfair for Wooyoung to care this much for him and make San hope for something that was never going to happen, not as long as the Shadowhunter Codex existed, not as long as Nephilim blood runs through their veins.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung mutters and it’s so clear that he’s pissed, but more than that, it’s how lost he sounds which makes San prod again.

“Don’t _nothing_ me. Tell me what’s happening. Did I do something?”

Panic mounts in San’s chest at the crestfallen look taking over Wooyoung’s face.

_Does he know?_

“No,” Wooyoung responds, like the mere thought of San doing something to hurt him is blasphemy which doesn’t even make sense because San knows exactly how much he has hurt Wooyoung through the years before he finally got to his senses and decided to accept defeat and go with the flow. 

Wooyoung shakes his head and continues, “You’ve been distant lately and I just… I was wondering if I did something to make you feel like you had to keep a distance. Yesterday, when you walked away, I didn’t even have the energy to call you back and I didn’t know if I could either, because it felt like you didn’t really care what I did.”

Wooyoung’s gaze drops to the ground again, an apology San doesn’t deserve hitting him in the gut. San wants to drive a seraph blade through his chest because surely, death is a much preferable option compared to what he has been unintentionally doing to the man beside him whom he promised to love and protect till the end of time, all in favor of his own heart.

“It’s not like that! You _know_ it’s not like that,” San says, and he hopes with everything he has that Wooyoung knows.

Wooyoung worries his bottom lip with his teeth and it’s heartbreaking, how even in this weather which has the power to wash everything anew, San is still stuck very much where he began, determined and desperate, walking forward with pretend confidence, knowing that at the end of the tunnel isn’t the light he wants to have and to hold, but eternal hellfire which will scald his skin and burn through his bones.

“I know. I just… couldn’t help myself,” Wooyoung says, and his hand curls around San’s bicep again, without San having to keep it locked between his chest and arm.

“They’re my friends, San, but you’ll always come first. Always. You’re my parabatai and no one will take this away from us, yeah?”

Wooyoung’s words are confident but calm and it’s meant to be reassuring, but San can only focus on how Wooyoung has read into all the wrong things. 

Despite all his skepticism regarding Wooyoung’s Downworlder allies and the Downworld in general, that really isn’t why San has been keeping a one hand distance from Wooyoung in the past few days. It was just his planned time out from Wooyoung and his bright aura and his stupid _stupid_ friendliness, just something San often did without the other knowing. 

As per a strict regime he followed whenever talking to Wooyoung would feel like the physical equivalent of the phantom pain of San’s vivid nightmares of his runes being stripped by the Council, he’d focus on training or helping Yeosang with his errands for the Institute, literally anything that wouldn’t draw attention to how he was keeping a distance from his parabatai.

The easiest way was just to lock himself in the library reading up on runes and the Silent Brothers and Raziel, _anything_ really, anything to keep himself from getting drawn into the gravitational force of Wooyoung, aligning with his orbit and losing himself to the pull of the bond which shouldn’t include what San felt so deeply in his heart. It was easy then, to answer Wooyoung with the bare minimum, to hum and grunt and nod in response because his parabatai, Angel bless his soul wouldn’t interrupt when San was reading, mostly because he knew how much San loved reading and San did, he really did love reading and researching, but nothing would ever compare to how he felt for Wooyoung.

_Nothing._

“I know. I’m sorry if you felt like I was being distant. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” San says, and he’s lying straight through his teeth and it shouldn’t feel as good as it does when Wooyoung sends him the smallest of smiles, warmth back in his eyes.

San says _fuck it_ and pulls his hand from Wooyoung’s grip, the other man’s expression falling so quickly it tugs San’s heart in two directions but he keeps calm. San’s intention isn’t to separate them and he pulls Wooyoung close by his waist, smiling when Wooyoung huddles closer which is an impossible feat all on its own considering their proximity in the first place.

This is enough, San tells himself. 

Maybe he won’t have Wooyoung in his arms forever, but he has him now and San is selfish, immensely so when it comes down to anything Wooyoung related. With a future that only promises and speaks of heartbreak and continued anguish, San thinks that it’s only right that he tries with everything he has to keep Wooyoung close when he already had him so near.

It’s probably not the smartest excuse he’s ever made, but for now, it’s enough.

✸♉✸♉✸

Yeosang leans against the pillar of the training room as San shoots another arrow at the target, his arms flexing comfortably, muscles already singing in contentment at the familiar pull. Yeosang is always so busy with assigning hunts and helping his father in running the Institute that it’s rare to get to see him like this, not shouting orders or running a hand through his straight blonde hair in frustration. He’s still dressed in his clothes from the night before and San knows that he’s still on duty, that he probably hasn’t slept yet. He also understands that whatever matter has come to Yeosang’s attention is concerning enough for him to find time for staging an intervention, or at the least, a conversation.

“He was sad when he couldn’t find you in your bed,” Yeosang says, voice low, a twinkle in his eye that always scared the hell out of San for fear of him finding out how he felt for Wooyoung. It doesn’t take all his brainpower to understand that Yeosang is talking about Wooyoung.

San gropes his quiver for another arrow and closes one eye. It’s just habit that makes him do it because years of rigorous and unapologetic training meant that it really isn’t necessary for him to look at the target now, considering how he has gotten used to going with his gut. He could probably do this in his sleep, but despite all the significance he knows confidence holds, especially in battle or on a hunt, there’s only a fine line between it turning into arrogance, so San keeps his eyes open and shoots again, the arrow splitting through the one he has already shot.

“I know,” San says, putting the bow down, stretching his arms to take the quiver off his back. He needs to tire himself out today, or he’ll stew in his thoughts again.

San moves to the pull up bar and rolls the sleeves of his t-shirt up to his shoulder, leaving his arms exposed. He jumps, gripping the iron bar with the momentum afforded to him by the gesture.

“Where did you go?” Yeosang asks, walking towards the bow San has left on the table, thumbing the metal, his painted shimmery black nails a stark contrast against his pale skin. The rune on his forearm flexes with the muscle as he picks the bow up, only to put it down after a moment.

“The park,” San grunts, holding the pose and counting down from thirty before repeating the same.

“Did he stay the night at someone’s place?” 

San shakes his head. One day Wooyoung will stay the night and San will have to deal with how his heart will shatter into smithereens.

“Then why were you upset?” Yeosang asks, raising an eyebrow at the glare San levels him. San holds the chin up pose for a few more seconds than is strictly necessary to avoid Yeosang’s question, racking his brain for all the excuses he can use that will gain approval from the personified polygraph test standing before him.

It isn’t the first time Yeosang has staged an intervention but it didn’t get any less nerve-wracking even with experience. Yeosang’s gaze is so intense, like he’s hoping to pull San apart layer by layer to get a read on him. If San hadn’t known him for so long, he’d have been terrified. 

The truth is, a part of him still is because if it came down to it, Yeosang would be the first one to see through all his facades. Perhaps, he already has and it’s this thought that makes San’s stomach turn in fear.

“Get down. Your arms are not going to hold you there forever,” Yeosang says, crossing his arms.

“I can try,” San tries weakly before he lets his hands go, landing gracefully on his feet.

Yeosang doesn’t look amused and it’s a clear hint that he isn’t joking around.

“It’s not my place to judge your decisions or your feelings, but San, you’re probably the biggest idiot I’ve ever seen.”

San frowns, a little offended and confused both by the statement and the lack of context.

Yeosang stares at him for a long moment, like he’s waiting for San to read between the lines, but all San sees is a freaking pendulum swinging too quickly for him to get a grip on it.

“And that just proved my point. Have a good day and get to the mess, will you? There’s only so much time that Yeonjun can give Wooyoung before he topples the Institute upside down looking for his parabatai and worrying about him starving to death,” Yeosang says, strutting away already, his boots thumping on the gym floor. “Again,” Yeosang adds, pausing at the doorway.

San stares at the doorway a few minutes after Yeosang has left too and he’s sharp, he wouldn’t survive a day on a hunt if he wasn’t, but somehow at that moment, he truly feels like he is the dumbest person in the world.

✸♉✸♉✸

San pulls the door to the warehouse open. He is already skeptical of how easily the door gives way under him. The tip off had been from an anonymous source as per Yeosang. San huffs internally.

 _Anonymous source, his ass_. 

It probably was that unfairly tall werewolf who Yeosang had the heart eyes for. As much as it pains him to admit it, if the werewolf had been the one to give the information, chances were that it really was true.

“Are you trying to glare holes through the wall or are you gonna move on so that we can finally send some demons back to hell?”

Wooyoung’s hands are on his hips and it’s not an imposing picture at all despite the seraph blade sheathed and attached to his thigh. His fading purple hair glows from the streetlight, the thick eyeliner rimming his eyes smudged a little at the corner. San curses mentally, because the one night he wants to be given a break from being attacked by how pretty Wooyoung is, the one night he hoped for the streetlights in this part of town where everything was damaged to the come through for him, the night crowd drowning in the darkness, the universe had decided to give him the proverbial middle finger. 

The maintenance crew of the city has never come through for them like this ever and San makes sure to jot down a reminder to write a fake complaint about the level of brightness of the lights. 

_Fuck his life._

“Jeez, someone’s in a hurry,” San says, but he moves out of the way, pushing the door even wider and flinches at the strong odour of ichor that hits him in the face. He looks down and groans, his boots already soaked in the pool of ichor gathered on the floor.

Wooyoung pulls his witchlight out, the bright white glow illuminating the darkness.

“Did the demons have an orgy here or what?” Wooyoung says, his voice echoing in the emptiness of the warehouse.

“I didn’t need that mental picture in my head,” San says, grimacing at the thought.

“Well, you have it anyway. Be grateful that I didn’t get graphic,” Wooyoung chastises, smacking him on his bicep. San hates how he wants to feel the sting for an eternity.

San stalks forward, his bow a comfortable weight on his arm, Wooyoung close behind him with his witchlight and seraph blade glowing. It’s more out of habit than them following a plan, Wooyoung with his seraph blade in the back and San with his bow in the front, a perfect pair for demon hunting as per the Silent Brother who had overseen their rune ceremony.

“Do you hear that?” Wooyoung asks, his voice a tad above a whisper. The air around them has shifted and if it is any of the lesser demons, they would have been attacked by now and the eerie vibe sends a shiver down San’s spine. 

San shakes his head after a moment spent with his eyes closed, trying to focus and hear what Wooyoung is talking about. It was pretty natural for him to not hear what Wooyoung could because the other had always had sensitive hearing.

Wooyoung places the witchlight into his back pocket and takes his stele out, drawing a rune San recognizes to be used for magnifying sound. Wooyoung reaches for his hand and cradles his palm to his chest as he draws it on his skin with meticulous precision.

The rune stings slightly before it darkens and melds with his skin.

Wooyoung gives him a questioning look in worry. San shakes his head.

“It doesn’t hurt,” San assures.

A moment later, a wall of sound hits him and he flinches, stumbling a bit, Wooyoung grabbing him by his arm to steady him.

It’s hard to focus on one sound when he can hear everything, including Wooyoung’s and his heartbeat, both oddly in sync. San shakes his head and forces himself to really listen, a deep humming sound streaming into his ears from the second floor of the warehouse. 

San opens his eyes and the rune fades from his palms.

“It’s... humming,” San says, not sure how to word the sound he’s hearing.

“What do you think it is?” Wooyoung asks, already pushing the stele down his pockets and grabbing his witchlight again. San mourns the loss of his skin against his, but it’s only for a moment as if his senses seem to have finally caught up with the situation, that they’re on a hunt.

“I don’t think I’ve heard it before,” San replies, proceeding further into the warehouse, his boots squelching every time his feet make contact with the viscous, thick fluid on the ground.

“Me too,” Wooyoung says, following him in silence, just the squelch of his boots signalling his presence behind him.

San climbs the stairs, his bow held in position, ready to shoot anything and everything demonic in sight.

There’s a loud rumble and before he knows it, there’s a flock of Oni demons before them, their guttural humming turning into growling. 

Well, that explained the silence and the strategy. Oni demons were smart.

San _hated_ smart demons.

It’s their first time facing off a flock of Oni demons together. They were rare enough that most shadowhunters went their entire lives without fighting one. A flock of them didn’t mean great things. The last time they'd seen one was when they’d gone on a hunt with Hongjoong, the shadowhunter who transferred from Daegu just a few months ago. Even then, Hongjoong had been the one to land the ending blow.

San knows they are way out of their depth as he shoots arrow after arrow at the Oni only for them to duck and disappear from their view, his arrows landing on the floor instead of hitting their marks. He turns to see Wooyoung struggling too, his seraph blade moving in arcs of light but never actually landing any blow on the attackers.

San spins around and drops his bow on the ground, taking his arrows from the quiver to stab into the demon approaching Wooyoung from behind. Wooyoung swiftly turns around, seraph blade slicing viciously through the demon who comes at San from his side. 

It feels a little two easy, how quickly the two demons fall.

San picks the bow back up, suspicion filling his senses.

Two demons down.

That wasn’t very good odds.

Another one of San’s arrows land on an Oni, but this one pulls the arrow out and leers at him, its green flesh stretching over its face, black teeth coming into view. It should be impossible for any demon to survive the power of the enkeli rune or the adamas in his arrow.

San senses foul play, but before he can figure out what’s going on, he hears a gasp from Wooyoung as his seraph blade fails too, the demon he’s fighting stalking towards him with dark intent. The parabatai rune directly over his chest throbs, urging him to go to his parabatai and leave everything else behind.

Turning on his heel and ignoring the demon sneering at him, San runs to Wooyoung, answering the pull of the bond.

The demons stand in some kind of odd formation in front of them before they disappear into thin air.

San sprints forward to the place they had been in just moments ago. He registers the stupidity of the move only when two of the demons appear again, Wooyoung screaming for him and rushing a little too late as the claws of the demon rip through the skin of his chest and his back.

The demons disappear just as quickly as they appear and San collapses forward, pain eviscerating every nerve end, his vision swimming with how quickly he’s losing blood. He chokes as Wooyoung lets out a loud sob and supports him before his knees can hit the ground.

“Hey, hey, San, I’m here,” Wooyoung says, fumbling with his stele, tears streaming down his pretty face, eyeliner ruined in seconds. Wooyoung pulls his shirt up, bunching it up to his chest and if it hadn’t been for the number of times this has happened on a hunt, San would have been positively hyped. Wooyoung’s hands are on him and the familiar corners of the iratze are carved on his skin, but that sting is nothing compared to the pain invading his senses.

The iratze fades quickly and San sees Wooyoung’s mouth wobble dangerously as he draws one upon another iratze.

“Wooyoungie, you can do this, yeah?” San mumbles, feeling the pain recede if only by a little, the parabatai bond making the iratzes drawn on him stronger because it’s done by Wooyoung himself.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding too much, you dumbass,” Wooyoung says, shaky hands still drawing the healing rune over and over.

San can feel the exhaustion catch up to him, but he doesn’t give in.

“I think it’s enough. Just take me to the infirmary. Woojin hyung can help,” San says, biting his teeth to get up.

Wooyoung shakes his head firmly. “No, the venom’s spreading too quickly. Look at your hands,” Wooyoung says, his eyes red-rimmed as he makes eye contact with him before dropping his gaze to San’s hands where his fingers have started to blacken at the ends.

_Fuck, was the end near so soon?_

“Then what?”

Wooyoung stares at him for a moment but he doesn’t answer him, hands still tracing iratzes blindly on his palm instead of his stomach. He puts his stele back in his pocket and puts one hand under San’s shoulder, another on his waist and heaves him up. San groans in pain when Wooyoung tries to support him.

“Lean on me, you stupid chivalrous idiot,” Wooyoung snaps, but his voice is beyond wrecked that the insult loses weight.

“With how many insults you’ve thrown at me in the past few minutes...” San wheezes for a breath, his lungs not cooperating for a moment. Wooyoung’s barely held together expression falls apart at the action. San continues anyway, “I’m not sure if I wanna live any more.”

Wooyoung full-on sobs at that, shaking his head in firm denial.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Wooyoung whispers, the mood hitting rock bottom again.

San lets Wooyoung support his weight as he presumably attempts to drag him down the stairs. Two steps in, he knows he has underestimated his injuries as his legs weaken under him, Wooyoung’s side already nearly soaked through with his blood.

Wooyoung gasps in shock, but doesn’t let him collapse, pausing to steady him.

“Do you trust me?” Wooyoung asks, his eyebrows scrunching together with determination.

San smiles weakly at him.

What kind of question was that supposed to be when San had given up everything, even himself, for him?

San nods anyway. “With my life,” he says, voice not as steady as he would like it to be, not for lack of faith in Wooyoung but for the lack of air in his lungs which were feeling clogged up in a way that had fear settling under his skin.

It’s perhaps a bit too much, even for his shadowhunter strength, because the next thing he knows is Wooyoung lifting the hand placed on his stomach and blowing on the ring he’s wearing, and his prompt descent into complete darkness.

✸♉✸♉✸

San wakes up to the overwhelming scent of lilac and eucalyptus and he immediately groans in realization.

 _Fucking Park Seonghwa_ , San thinks, with as much venom as he can muster up.

When Wooyoung asked him if he trusted him, he really should have known that he’d wake up in the guest bedroom of the High Warlock of Gangnam. For what it’s worth, San does feel a lot better. He’s shirtless and the painful feeling of two wounds which had been carved on his skin isn’t present now. The skin has knitted together neatly and San gets up, scooting backward into a sitting position to press his fingers against the skin over his shoulder. It doesn’t even feel sore.

All that’s left is a potent feeling of exhaustion. Other than that, he’s fine.

Except that he’ll probably be indebted to a Downworlder forever.

The door swings open, the warlock with his shimmery, flowing purple blouse sauntering in, his hips swaying seductively for no fucking reason at all. Wooyoung is close behind him and the scowl that settles on San’s brows relax a little as his parabatai walks in.

San hates how the blouse Seonghwa is wearing is the exact shade as Wooyoung’s hair.

“Good morning, my lovely shadowhunter,” Seonghwa says, waving his hands in the air like he’s about to whip up a freaking potted plant out of thin air from his infuriating attitude alone.

“I’m not your fucking shadowhunter,” San spits before he tacks on, “or lovely.”

Seonghwa doesn’t seem fazed at all. He’s probably used to the dirty looks San gives him every time they visit him for help, not on San’s preference but on Wooyoung’s volition alone.

“Look, he’s as pleasant as a rose, like always, Wooyoungie,” Seonghwa says, a charming smile on his face.

San wants to gag at the way the nickname rolls off of Seonghwa’s tongue but he settles on scowling even harder.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says, sitting next to him.

“Hey,” San whispers back. It’s embarrassing how quickly the scowl disappears from his face, his heart taking control of his expression as it proceeds to melt at the concern and relief on Wooyoung’s face. 

“Can I?” Wooyoung asks, his hand hovering on his lap. San nods his head in agreement.

Wooyoung’s hands are warm as he cups San’s cheek with one hand and uses the other to poke at the newly knitted skin.

“Does it hurt?” 

“No,” San replies, not letting his eyes stray from Wooyoung’s face. 

“Merlin! It’s bloody hot in here, isn’t it?” Seonghwa says, his voice way too loud for San’s tastes. The Yeosang-shaped voice of reason in his head cackles at him.

Wooyoung was loud, but that was _different_. 

It really was.

San knows how much of a half-assed excuse that is, but it is what it is.

Wooyoung’s hands retreat from his skin at Seonghwa’s words.

“Do you ever shut up?” San asks, his head throbbing with a headache he knows is here to stay for at least a few days.

“Now, is that any way to thank someone who has drained themselves to save you from an early grave, snarky little shadowhunter?”

The grin on Seonghwa’s face is oddly dangerous, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief, like he’s a living dichotomy.

“San,” Wooyoung says, warning.

“But he…” San says, but Wooyoung interrupts with his soft, tired voice as he says, “Please.”

San sighs to himself. 

“Thank you,” he says, hoping he sounds genuine because as much as he doesn’t trust Downworlders, Wooyoung trusted Seonghwa. He wouldn’t have brought him here if he hadn’t trusted Seonghwa’s intentions.

Seonghwa doesn’t reply with a witty retort, his sharp eyes softening at the edges. San pretends he doesn’t see it.

“Wooyoungie, would you like some more of that ginger tea?” Seonghwa asks, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinks at San’s parabatai. 

_How dare he?_

Wooyoung nods. “You want some?” Wooyoung’s voice is soft as he asks it that it’s hard to say no to him despite all of San’s instincts screaming at him to not do it.

“Yeah, sure,” San sputters instead, hating how Seonghwa sends him a knowing smile like he has poked around inside his mind enough to know exactly what his thoughts were.

Seonghwa leaves the room with a quick but flamboyant wave, on-brand for him if San’s being honest.

“I thought you were going to die,” Wooyoung says, lying down and curling up next to him. 

It’s been a few weeks since they’ve cuddled, San delaying his sleeping hours or messing with it enough that it never synced up with Wooyoung’s to avoid heartbreak for as long as possible. However, it’s no longer avoidable, not with how much of a scare it must have been for Wooyoung, not with how small and sad he looks curled up next to him.

San’s not used to seeing Wooyoung like this. He’s definitely seen him have his off days, but no matter what, he always glowed, filling up every room he walked in with his warm energy, larger than life enthusiasm and his high pitched laughter which often toed the line between a shriek and a screech. Like this though, Wooyoung looks like he has shrunk in the few hours San was knocked out. San doesn’t like the way that particular piece of information sinks in.

“I would _never_ ,” San says, smiling warmly as Wooyoung’s warm hand rubs San’s tummy with slow, soft movements.

San wants to melt to the ground and pull Wooyoung close. Against all the red flags his brain raises in a consecutive line in an attempt to convince him of why he shouldn’t, he presses a kiss on Wooyoung’s hair. Wooyoung freezes for a moment before he relaxes, a soft sigh escaping his mouth.

“You almost did,” Wooyoung argues.

“I wouldn’t die just from _one_ claw of an Oni demon,” San retorts.

“It was _two_ demons and it wasn’t _one_ little claw, San. They really sunk _all five claws_ in you. I thought I was gonna faint when I saw you stumble.”

Wooyoung’s voice is stable, but San can sense the worry, stress and panic he must have felt in the few minutes he spent waiting for San to heal until he finally understood that iratzes weren’t going to work.

“But I didn’t. You saved me. You called for help,” San says, Wooyoung resting his head on his shoulder and nuzzling closer, his fingers tracing the parabatai rune on the side of San’s waist.

“I could feel your pain,” Wooyoung confesses. San had figured as much because it was a life-threatening injury and even if he had been trying his best to keep it together for the sake of Wooyoung, the bond wouldn’t lie to the person on the other end.

Despite all of San’s qualms about warlocks, he’s pretty sure that even the healers at the Institute couldn’t have done such a clean job. It’s with sinking despair that San notes that he really owed Seonghwa one.

“I’m sorry,” San apologizes.

Wooyoung doesn’t get the time to reply as Seonghwa knocks and opens the door, coming in with a tray of tea balanced in his hands. He raises an eyebrow at San, quickly glancing at the space between them or lack thereof, but there’s no judgement, just barely concealed curiosity. San quirks an eyebrow in response, but doesn’t move away from Wooyoung, letting his parabatai separate from him of his own volition. Wooyoung caresses the rune on his chest for another minute before he sighs and gets up.

After they’ve sipped tea, San feeling a lot more rejuvenated from the drink, Wooyoung tells him that Seonghwa had promised to help with the Oni demons, considering the totally strange way that the demons had acted, unresponsive to adamas and their angel blessed weapons. Fraternizing with the Downworlders isn’t something that was appreciated by the shadowhunter community, but the stigma isn’t as intense as it used to be, and San knows more than to deny help when it was only his pride which was standing in the way.

Wooyoung slips away to the living room to grab his boots as San scoots to the edge of the bed and lifts himself to his feet.

Seonghwa places the cup down, a small clink resounding in the otherwise silent room.

“You will kill yourself pretending like this, San,” Seonghwa states, his eyes flickering a deep red, irises cat-like as they thin to a bright gold before it relaxes back to the warm brown glamour he wore on a daily basis.

“Pretending?” San asks, running a hand through his hair to distract himself.

“That you see him only as a parabatai,” Seonghwa says, getting straight to the point.

San flinches, but he squares his shoulders and shakes his head.

“You don’t know anything about what I feel for him,” San grits.

“You think you’re so smart, that no one will see it, but your attempts are pathetic, San. One day, he will see straight through all the lies you’ve uttered looking him in the eye.”

Seonghwa isn’t lying. San knows that. One day Wooyoung is going to realize what San felt for him all these years and he’ll probably flinch away in terror and in disgust and San wouldn’t have anything to hold on to anymore but that’s the future, one San will desperately try to avoid no matter how inevitable it seemed. He has Wooyoung now, and as long as he keeps his heart’s deepest desires a secret, he’ll have Wooyoung for as long as his control allows him to, as long as his heart beats on the same rhythm as Wooyoung’s.

“I know he will,” San says, accepting defeat quickly.

“What then?” Seonghwa asks, crossing his legs, the perfect picture of elegance and peace. San wonders what it feels to have an eternity at your behest, with no one by your side. It must be incredibly lonely.

“I don’t know. There’s nothing I can do about this. I’m his friend, his parabatai. There's no human bond that compares to what Wooyoung and I have. We're bound together for life. Bound to fight together, to protect each other. If one of us were to die... a part of the other would die inside as well and as much as I know how precious a bond this is, that’s all we are. Wooyoung and I are _friends_ , Park. _Nothing_ more, _nothing_ less and as long as there’s a heart beating in my chest, I will do _anything_ to keep it that way.”

San feels the ache in his chest expand enough for him to feel suffocated even if the windows are wide open. He chokes on his breath, blinking back tears. 

“What if it didn’t have to stay like this anymore?” Seonghwa asks, leaning forward in his seat.

San laughs humorlessly. He has spent _years_ pouring over yellowing pages, learning languages that were extinct to read up on everything that could hint at the slightest of possibilities that he could have Wooyoung the way he wanted, but there wasn’t anything. Thousands of tomes and hidden books in ancient languages and none of them talked about the possibility of a romantic bond between shadowhunters linked together by the parabatai rune. The search was a deadend, one that had been painful to digest, but one he’d had to swallow anyway despite the bitter aftertaste it left in his mouth.

The parabatai bond was a deadlock, a proverbial checkmate from the shadow world and it seemed that it would remain the same. 

Seonghwa looks at him for a long moment, his gaze unflinching and gets up, clearly deeming the conversation done. He crouches to lift the tray into his hands, but he pauses at the doorway, turning around.

“Lex malla, lex nulla, San. Remember that.”

_A bad law is no law._

Seonghwa doesn’t wait to hear his response, walking away with measured strides of his feet, leaving San alone to agonize over his feelings for his parabatai, forbidden as they are.


	2. Cautio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello rockstars, 
> 
> This chapter will hint at what our boys are facing in a little more detail! The canon lore has undergone many changes in my hands, so if anything is unclear, feel free to ask! Here’s a list of niche terms in the canon lore that I have borrowed and mention in passing that will augment your understanding of those sections.
> 
> Idris: The home country of Shadowhunters which was gifted to them by Angel Raziel. It’s like the Shadowhunter headquarters!  
> Silent Brothers: Immensely powerful archive keepers and medics of the shadow world.  
> Rune ceremony: Ideally the ceremony in which a young shadowhunter who has completed their training receives their first rune.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy reading!

San wakes up without any particular stimulus alerting his consciousness. He blinks up at the ceiling, chastising himself mentally for leaving the bed lamp on.

A moment passes where he relishes the feeling of the soft pillow under his head, breathing slowly, nose burning at the cold air.

An ominous feeling hits him out of nowhere. He blacks out for a solid second as pain of arguably the worst kind tears through the skin over his chest.

_ The parabatai rune _ , San realizes with a jolt, sleepiness overtaken by agony and fear.

The sensation of fire traverses through his skin and he screws his eyes shut, curling himself into a ball in an attempt to get the pain to stop. With the sense of frightening urgency that floods in his chest threaded together with a feeling that something is horribly wrong, San gasps as he bolts upright, unfurling himself from the ball he’d curled into. 

The stubborn agony sets in insistently like someone has placed a molten iron rod over his chest and is trying to burn the bond alive, succeeding in making his insides feel like it’s not blood that is pumping through his veins, but magma meant to kill and destroy alone. San doesn’t care for the sleep shirt as he tears it open, looking down at his chest to see that the parabatai rune is lit up with a golden glow instead of the obsidian black it usually is. 

_ Wooyoung. _

San bolts out of bed even if he wants to collapse and preferably get dunked in a pool of freezing cold water and not come up till this searing pain is well out of its way. If he’s feeling like this, surely Wooyoung must be in pain too. The thought itself is enough to get him moving. He stumbles forward, trying to keep Wooyoung in the forefront of his mind as he pushes the blinding pain to the background. San’s pain is inconsequential if Wooyoung was experiencing the same thing too, so he scurries forward, mind blanking except for one thing.

San doesn’t make it to Wooyoung’s room though. His body gives up on him three steps from the bed frame and he curses loudly at his failure to reach for his parabatai. He staggers to the floor as the white-hot agony intensifies, distantly registering the sound of his room’s door opening. 

As always, he doesn’t have to look up to know that it’s Wooyoung. There was only one person who would know so quickly if he was feeling like he was under a shower of daggers, only one person who would punch through a whole mountain if it would bring him to San, only one person who would give up everything he was if it meant seeing San be happy. 

_ Wooyoung. _

San’s parabatai.

San’s  _ everything _ .

Despite the spine-crushing agony which ripples through him making a million colors flash behind his eyelids, he’d recognize Wooyoung by his presence alone and with no tangible evidence to prove it. 

San doesn’t get time to open his eyes before Wooyoung’s arms are around him, his veiny, toned arms pressing him close to his chest, shushing his pained sobs even as the other boy sounds like he is in pain too, reassuring him with soft words and muffled sobs uttered against his sweaty neck, his nose buried in his hair.

San bites his teeth in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache and twists around in Wooyoung’s hold because he was supposed to be the strong one, he was the one who had promised his parabatai that he’d protect him with everything he had to his name and his soul. He places one hand over Wooyoung’s waist and looks at him with tears streaming down the skin of his cheeks, the linoleum floor unapologetically cold underneath them. Wooyoung’s lips are feather light on his nape and San wants to preserve the moment, tuck it away in a part of his heart and lock it tight for him to visit on sleepless nights spent shooting arrows from the roofs of skyscrapers amongst the concrete jungle.

The pain, however, is an effective reminder of what he  _ can’t _ have.

Wooyoung’s face is red and blotchy with tears when San opens his eyes to look at him. His eyes are screwed shut, long black eyelashes wet and threatening to stick together. If San wasn’t so breathless already, this would have been the moment he’d have lost all sense and coherence.

San grits his teeth and focuses as Wooyoung whines in pain against him, the sound making his insides quiver. He holds up a hand, a feat all on its own considering how the pain only seemed to be intensifying by the second. He pushes Wooyoung’s hair away from his sweaty forehead and wipes the tears on his face, trying to smile but managing only a pained grimace. Wooyoung smiles though, his lips curving at the corners before he bucks in San’s arms again, whimpering. 

San doesn’t know if he’s feeling Wooyoung’s pain or vice versa or if they’re both in pain and the bond is just magnifying the ache sparking up his spine and making him want to bundle Wooyoung up and run away to some painless limbo. 

The bond should never have glowed gold, but even through the haze of tears, San can see the rune on Wooyoung’s chest pulsing what he would have called a beautiful gold akin to heavenly fire if it wasn’t the source of such an all-consuming stabbing throughout his body. San shushes him, whispering about comfort and safety against the soft skin of Wooyoung’s neck as he presses his lips over the strength rune branded there.

Wooyoung shivers against him before he leans back a little, his hand cold as he presses it against the parabatai rune on San’s chest.

San fully expects it to hurt, but it feels…  _ better _ . The scorching torture from moments ago fades into a lull as tears roll down the bridge of Wooyoung’s nose, a small smile brightening up his face again as if in response to giving San some relief.

San finally has control of his lungs and he lets out a shaky breath. Wooyoung looks up from his chest to face him with wide eyes. San doesn’t think any more as he pushes his hand up Wooyoung’s shirt, twisting his wrist to place it flat against Wooyoung’s mirroring rune, skin to skin contact making the other sigh shakily against him.

“Better now?” He asks, his voice coming out raw, wincing internally.

Wooyoung curls closer to him and tucks his head over San’s shoulder. Their hands are still awkwardly placed in a borderline painful position over their chests and they’re lying on the cold ground without so much as a blanket to keep them warm, only body heat serving its dual purpose. 

San is  _ shirtless _ .

This is almost too intimate for even parabatai. It shouldn’t make his heart squeeze so tightly in his chest when Wooyoung nods against his neck, sweat and tears and soft  _ soft  _ skin rubbing over his own clammy skin.

Wooyoung’s chin stays hooked over San’s until the ache fully dies down and his wrist starts to cramp.

“I’m gonna…” San says, clearing his throat and pulling away, his hand protesting against the separation as he draws it away from the smooth skin of Wooyoung’s chest.

Wooyoung doesn’t let up until a few moments later and he looks like he’d zoned out in the time he spent in San’s arms.

“Is it okay now?” San asks, flicking his gaze down to his own rune, now a familiar inky black. Wooyoung blinks at him slowly and San stares at him for a moment longer than he usually lets himself look. Once the moment passes, he snaps his fingers in front of his parabatai.

Wooyoung shudders, eyes widening at the sound.

“You okay now?” San asks, concerned gaze dragging over the other’s frame.

Wooyoung nods quickly, rubbing his hand over his clothed chest.

“Do you know what happened?” San asks, sitting up and folding his legs under him as Wooyoung scooted closer and mirrored the position right opposite him.

“No, I woke up in pain and the rune was glowing like it was burning and I just ran here. I didn’t know if it was your pain or mine or if it was the bond itself.”

A frown nestles comfortably over Wooyoung’s eyebrows in complete cluelessness.

San really should have known that Wooyoung wouldn’t know either.

If it wasn’t his pain or Wooyoung’s, then why had the rune been glowing?

“Do you think something is wrong with our bond, San?”

Wooyoung’s face is blank as he asks it, but San’s heart drops to the bottomless ocean.

What if he had gone ahead and fucked things up for them and the bond was giving them negative feedback to put things back the way they were?

San almost laughs out loud at the thought. Putting things back the way they were wouldn’t change a thing because San can’t think of one moment in his life when he hadn’t loved Wooyoung. There was always a sway to the kind of things he felt for Wooyoung and it wasn’t until his exposure to subpar movies and countless books that he’d deciphered the reason why his heart pounded harder every time Wooyoung so much as looked at him.

“I don’t know, Wooyoung,” San mumbles, finding it hard to make eye contact now that Wooyoung has asked a question San can’t confidently answer. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

Wooyoung’s gaze on him feels comfortingly warm and searing at the same time.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah?” Wooyoung puts a hand over the rune on his neck and leans into his space. 

With any other person, this is too close for comfort and San would flinch away and by the Angel, San  _ wants _ to, because he’s not supposed to dream about having a life like the one he wants with Wooyoung, not supposed to think about waking up to warmth and fantasize about kissing his parabatai or holding him for an eternity. 

The kind of forever he wants with Wooyoung, San will never have it. 

The bond wasn’t for lovers, it was for best friends, for warriors whose loyalty was to each other, for soulmates who’d perish at the thought of losing the other.

They are everything the bond wants them to be, but San’s fucked up and greedy and selfish because he wishes for and wants them to be the one thing they aren’t supposed to be too.

He nods, their foreheads almost meeting, static flickering between them that only San feels.

The agony from mere minutes ago which had been all-compassing is not supposed to be tucked away so quickly to the side, but something in San tells him that as much as he’s scared of finding the answer to this twisted game with the rune which bound them together, Wooyoung was scared of the answer too.

Wooyoung pulls him closer and hooks a leg over his hip as he thinks it. 

San begs for mercy to the angels.

Over a thousand angels as per the Gray Book and none of them show him the courtesy of freeing him from this beautiful torture. San curls his hand even tighter around Wooyoung’s waist and lets himself have this for one more night.

✸♉✸♉✸

As familiar as the Institute and its residents are, San doesn’t think that it’s possible to just knock on any random door and ask about the feedback from the rune stamped over his chest. He’s essentially juggling two tasks as he roams around the hallways, nodding curtly at older and more experienced shadowhunters as they pass by him and letting his lips curl a little as the younger ones sprint past him, talking in excited voices and exaggerating the sounds of arrows and blades as they relive their training exercises in the middle of the corridor without care. 

The tasks in question include avoiding Wooyoung and finding out what is wrong with the bond and as deceptively simple as it looks, it makes San underestimate his resolve and iron-clad determination. 

San had walked into the mess in the morning to see Wooyoung sitting with Yeonjun, his parabatai promptly zoned out as the blue-haired shadowhunter chattered on about something San wasn’t privy to and was certain he  _ didn’t _ want to know. San had weighed his options of sneaking in and getting his breakfast before he’d turned around because the moment he looked over at Wooyoung to check on him again, his parabatai had beamed at him, waving him over. San had frozen at the doorway before he shook his head and shrugged, telling himself to feel not so guilty at the way Wooyoung’s face had fallen.

San had skipped breakfast in conclusion, because even as a fully-functioning adult and as someone who’d been on the receiving end more than anyone else, apparently his heart still hadn’t learned to handle the brightness of Wooyoung’s smile directed at him, especially on the days when his loyalty to the truth of the bond hung in a balance.

Looking at Wooyoung hurts more on those days, a dull ache which makes him want to lock himself up and never step into the rays of the sun that Wooyoung was.

It’s an unachievable dream though, one San considers a nightmare.

To give up Wooyoung would be to live for eternity without anyone to live it for.

San halts in his tracks, putting up both his hands in a useless kind of reflex action as a slightly shorter figure stumbles into him, the stack of papers the other had been carrying flying around them.

Regret creeps instantly into his vision.

“Watch where you’re going, Choi!”

Hongjoong is blazing with anger as he glares at San with the entirety of his short-limbed fury of an existence. San feels himself disintegrate at the snappy tone and the sharpness of his gaze.

The papers which had flown out of Hongjoong’s hands finally settle down on the floor and San mumbles an apology as he helps the other man gather it. It’s clear from Hongjoong’s look that he’s managed to completely and utterly mess up the order of what looked like at least a thousand pages of reports which had previously been arranged in the chronological order.

San genuinely feels bad that he’d been wallowing in self-pity too much to spare a glance in his path.

“I’m sorry, Hongjoong,” he says again as Hongjoong straightens up with another glare levelled at him.

Hongjoong swears under his breath, but thankfully he doesn’t snap like he did the first time. San looks at him with what he hopes conveys the apology he has vocalized.

Hongjoong doesn’t seem to appreciate the sentiment. “What? You need a medal for the apology, Choi? This isn’t some fucking rom-com, so keep your eyes in front of you, yeah?”

San nods, frozen in place, feeling thoroughly dismissed.

Hongjoong’s gaze flicks over his face and the ever present frown on his face intensifies. San’s about to ask if something is wrong is with his face, considering the odd look he has just received from the older shadowhunter when he hears Wooyoung’s loud voice call for him. His parabatai moves quickly down the corridor, light on his feet. San bites down on the urge to instantly turn to Wooyoung, the bond responding to the pull of his other half’s physical presence before he can. He resists the tug in his veins and shuts his eyes. Hongjoong, however, doesn’t seem to have any qualms in doing so, spinning halfway on his heel to look in Wooyoung’s direction.

San blinks and makes a split second decision.

“Can I help you put these in order? It’s only fair that I help since I’m the reason it is all messed up now,” San offers, mouth going dry at Wooyoung’s approaching footsteps.

“ _ Please _ ,” San adds, not able to help himself as he glances at Wooyoung who is  _ way _ too close  _ way _ too quick. Hongjoong follows the glance and turns back to look at him and San must look desperate enough because he screws his eyes shut.

“Whatever,” he mutters in annoyance, shoving half of the stack of papers to him unceremoniously. San keeps himself from blurting out a word of gratitude, just to be on the safe side.

“San!” Wooyoung hollers again, running towards him now that San turns around with Hongjoong. Hongjoong raises an eyebrow as San frowns and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

“Wooyoung,” he says, hating how he sounds monotone. The smile on Wooyoung’s face crumples quickly. San wants to take it back, but a part of him whispers viciously at him to let it be, to let Wooyoung be hurt for a moment longer if only to save him from an even more unfortunate fate later.

“I was wondering if you wanted to spar with me,” Wooyoung asks, quickly recovering from the blow San has proverbially landed. His lips strain with the effort to keep the fake smile over his face in an attempt to hide how hurt he is.

San understands, but San can do nothing about it. No, he  _ can _ , but he  _ won’t _ .

Long term goals and a parabatai forever. Those were the priorities.

“I can’t, Woo. I wasn’t looking where I was going and I bumped into Hongjoong,” San lifts the stack of papers in his hands, gesturing at them with his chin, “I messed up the order, so he asked if I could help with arranging it.”

The way the lie rolls off his tongue is shocking. Wooyoung doesn’t look like he believes it though, because he looks at Hongjoong in lieu of another response as if to prove his suspicion right.

Hongjoong gives him a pointed look before he smiles a little at Wooyoung in apology, lips curling in a quiet unfamiliar curve which almost seemed out of place on his fairy-like but sharp face. 

San doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hongjoong attempt to smile since he transferred here, which was pretty normal since Hongjoong was a loner and preferred the confines of his room to the chaos of the common areas.

“Yeah. Do you mind?” Hongjoong asks, but his tone is one that resounds with a challenge, a total flip from how he had smiled at Wooyoung moments ago.

Wooyoung looks at San owlishly, something breaking in his eyes as he backs away.

“I’ll,” his voice cracks, “I’ll catch you later then.” 

San doesn’t respond and Wooyoung walks away without saying anything else, shoulders slumped like he’s lost an important fight.

✸♉✸♉✸

“Care to tell me why you’re ignoring your parabatai so blatantly?” Hongjoong asks later, dispelling the silence which had fallen over them as they poured over the reports in an attempt to reorganize them. It seemed that Yeosang was the one who’d been assigned this task, but Hongjoong had apparently offered to help after seeing the younger’s state.

Yeosang was being stretched thin. San was aware of it too, but he never gave up the tasks he was assigned unless he was a minuscule inch away from collapsing due to exhaustion. It was either that or Hongjoong was incredibly convincing. 

San isn’t entirely sure about where to place his bets.

San flinches as the question fully registers in his head and he straightens up, back still aching from hunching over the table in the older’s room. It worried him that the older shadowhunter who hadn’t been around him long enough to know all his tells and quirks could see straight through him so well. It brought up the question of whether Wooyoung was aware too. 

He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

“I’m not ignoring him,” San mumbles, wanting to sound stand-offish but it only ends up sounding regretful.

Hongjoong pauses in stacking the papers and looks up. “Is that so?” He asks, arching a dark eyebrow, the slanted cross where pale skin showed through taking his attention away for a second.

“I’m not ignoring him,” San says again.

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than you’re trying to convince me,” Hongjoong points out. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging but his gaze is silently furious and intrusive as he flicks it over San’s face. San has been on the receiving end of the same look too many times from too many people including himself to know that Hongjoong is angry for some reason. He doesn’t need much time to realize that the reason was, perhaps, himself.

“It’s none of your business,” San spits. He knows he sounds defensive, but he has no intentions to stand by and watch as his feelings get picked apart by a shadowhunter who doesn’t even  _ know _ him.

“It isn’t,” Hongjoong agrees, but San can’t fathom why Hongjoong looks so much more furious with him now.

“Ungrateful people like you who take advantage of a bond as precious as being parabatai is why people like me will never be brave enough to let someone into their life like that. If you knew how many people spend their whole lives looking for one person to share their burdens with them, to be there for them in the times when they cut it too close, you wouldn’t act like a child like you’re doing now.”

San slams a hand over the table, the stack of papers he’d arranged threatening to fall over.

“You don’t know  _ anything _ about our bond or what  _ I _ feel for _ him _ , so,” San raises a finger shaking in anger and jabs it in Hongjoong’s direction, “you  _ stop _ talking about _ our _ bond, a bond  _ no one _ in this realm or any other has any right to talk about and you stay the fuck away from anything even  _ remotely related  _ to us being parabatai.” San’s entire frame is buzzing with anger, but Hongjoong, annoyingly enough, doesn’t look bothered at all.

This isn’t the first time he’s received the speech of the sublimity of the parabatai bond, tales and lived experiences of it being the strongest bond among shadowhunters has chased him around ever since he’d met Wooyoung, about how it was the most powerful rune in the Gray book that could be drawn on a shadowhunter’s body, a bond so rare that many shadowhunters lived their whole lives without finding someone to live up to the demands of the rune which bound their souls with another’s. However, San hadn’t even had to move the  _ slightest _ to find his parabatai because Wooyoung was always _ always  _ right next to him.

It’s not the first time, and San knows definitively that it won’t be the last time, but it’s definitely the first time that words about the bond he shared with Wooyoung has managed to sting this much. San swallows hard, trying to look at anywhere but Hongjoong. 

Hongjoong looks way too angry on Wooyoung’s behalf and San sends a bristling look to the other. No one had the right to get angry for Wooyoung when San existed.

The lack of response reminds San of how the other shadowhunter had backed him up on the excuse he made to Wooyoung. He can’t possibly walk out of the room if he doesn’t clarify it. “If you were so cross with it, why did you even help me excuse myself? You could have thrown me under the bus and left.”

Hongjoong laughs and it’s borderline devilish, sending a shiver up San’s spine, the realization settling in that he really didn’t know anything about the man in front of him.

“You would have preferred if I’d gone ahead and done that then?” Hongjoong asks, tilting his head cockily.

San lies. “Yeah, if it meant not dealing with this, I wouldn’t have minded.”

“You just gave me another reason to believe that you don’t deserve to have  _ him _ as parabatai, Choi. The fact that you don’t even care that he would have been even more disappointed if he knew that you lied to him makes my point all the more clear. I had merely thought that I’d use the one good deed a day on him today. He clearly needed that, I guess, now that I know how exactly you treat him.”

San wants to snap again, make Hongjoong take back every word Hongjoong has let loose in the space between them without any clue as to how deeply San felt for Wooyoung, about how necessary this chasm he’s trying to create between them was needed to ensure the longevity of their bond, but he controls the urge. The conclusions Hongjoong has drawn combined with him thinking he has any say in what San does to Wooyoung doesn’t make any sense either, but this entire conversation so far hasn’t made much sense to him anyway. San clenches his jaw, throws his hands up and changes lanes. 

“What the hell did I even do to you to make you so angry?”

Hongjoong doesn’t so much as blink. “Nothing,” Hongjoong says with conviction, “Treat your parabatai right, Choi. Things are changing.”

It’s Hongjoong’s room and San is the one who should be walking away after the kind of rage that has been unleashed between them, but it’s the older shadowhunter who turns on his heels and disappears out the door before San can ask him to stay and explain what he meant. 

San wonders if Seonghwa and Hongjoong had met in some alternate reality or a past life and had decided to adopt each other’s habits, of interrogating San out of the blue and storming away, leaving him to fend for himself as he clung on to a vague amalgamation of words and nothing else.

✸♉✸♉✸

Disappointing Wooyoung isn’t something that San does for the fun and thrill of it. What could possibly be so pleasant about hurting the person whose soul was merged with yours for an eternity, in turn making you feel their pain too, has always been a mystery to San. Ever since the night he’d decided to agree to Wooyoung’s parents’ proposal to him after months of seemingly ritualistic and incredibly political banter bordering on warfare to become Wooyoung’s parabatai, he hasn’t been the same. He had spent weeks of his time in tormenting contemplation and even gruelling interrogations by the curious and intrusive questions of his fellow shadowhunters, older and younger alike, finally convincing himself that he didn’t particularly care for  _ how _ he had Wooyoung, that he just wanted him by his side and share his feelings, his weaknesses, his strengths and his breaths for as long as he lived.

People called them monikers, glorious ones, they still do, and one after another several titles have found their way to their names and San hates the scrutiny they are constantly under. He hates being treated differently just because he had a parabatai. They have made many mistakes, but not many seemed to care about the possibility of over-confidence being the one thing that would run them over.

San stopped caring years ago because he knew that the Institute in Seoul hadn’t seen a pair of parabatai in over a hundred years. He understood the wonder because the bond wouldn’t take unless the Angels approved of the union but that didn’t make things any easier for the both of them. More than all that, they called them brothers and San flinched, unfailingly, because he could be _ everything _ to Wooyoung except  _ that _ .

_ Anything _ but  _ that _ .

They worked well together, too well that one would know exactly what the other would do when matched against a force from Hell with its malicious intent. San could blindly take steps in the darkness with the inherent and intimate knowledge that Wooyoung would be right there to catch him. He knows that Wooyoung would do the same in a heartbeat.

None of them have had to give voice to the words which threatened to get stuck in their throats in the throes of adrenaline rushes or angered yelling because the parabatai bond was prompt enough in its purpose. Snarky remarks and a challenge at the tip of their tongues used to be their love language until it had progressed into a more mature version of it, where neither of them hesitated with being tactile because the bond seemed perfectly content when they were in each other’s arms. 

A couple of years ago, when San was still in the process of coercing himself to cooperate in staying Wooyoung’s best friend and nothing else, he’d been scared. He still is, but he has gotten braver over the years, and he has seen loss in all its cruel forms, enough to know that he wouldn’t survive if he were to lose Wooyoung. 

Perched on the sill of the window overlooking the lake behind the Institute, the ancient dark water trilling pleasantly as it disappears into a chasm in the ground, all San wants is to answer to the pull of the bond which echoes in his head like a siren's song.

He resists it with every ounce of his will and doesn’t move till it's the night when the cold air has rendered the tip of his nose completely numb.

✸♉✸♉✸

San knocks on Wooyoung’s door once. Neither of them had the habit of knocking on each other’s doors unless things were tense between them which wasn’t as uncommon as others liked to think. The exchange with Wooyoung in the corridor had sounded like a fight even if only a few words were bounced back and forth between them, contrary to the nature of their usual fights which included the essential ingredients like furious looks that had the ability to turn each other into ashes and screaming matches of who could be louder and leave the other in the dust. 

San, as vain as he is, isn’t conceited enough to think that fighting was bad for their bond. They were people underneath all the machismo and the charisma stemming from the strength of the Nephilim blood pumping through their body. So, they fought, claws sinking into bare flesh and beating hearts, but they also never really shrunk away from apologizing because in the long run, an apology never hurt any of them. San, when it came down to it, has never had problems with his pride getting in the way of giving Wooyoung an apology for his bratty behavior, so it's not awkward to find himself staring at the door to Wooyoung's room, the image of which is pretty much carved under his eyelids. If he squints, he can still see the dreamcatcher rune he'd drawn with a special stele to stop Wooyoung from having nightmares. It's invisible to everyone except San who can pick up on its energy signature solely because he's the one who'd drawn it. There's another one of the same rune on Wooyoung's bed's headboard.

San shakes his mind away from the digressions and shuts his eyes to listen in on the bond. He is desperate to get rid of the nerves too, because once it crosses a particular threshold, Wooyoung would know too. San doesn’t want to lie to Wooyoung again today. He’s also not prepared for an onslaught of questions from him.

Sometimes, it seemed like he’d never be.

The bond is dulled by a melancholic indigo. San already knows the reason behind it. He prods further to see whether Wooyoung is asleep, finding that he wasn't. If Wooyoung was this affected to keep away from his bed on a free night, a privilege they weren’t afforded often, San figures that being the uninvited guest was the only option he had left.

San’s hand barely brushes the door’s handle when he hears the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.

“That’s not going to work,” Yeosang tuts, his under eyes a mottled purple that San would be concerned for any other day if he hadn’t met Hongjoong during the day and hadn’t heard about the increase in workload in the records and data wing. There's no point in asking for something he already knows the answer to.

San frowns and turns to face him.

“Why not?” San asks as he twists the door handle, entering the room just to spite Yeosang.

The bed and the bean bag next to the window in Wooyoung’s room is empty.

“Told you,” Yeosang says, looking at him intently from where he’s leaning against the doorframe.

San isn’t in the mood to play the riddle game with Yeosang today. His cryptic conversation counter for the day has long since closed in the afternoon with the encounter with Hongjoong.

“Where is he?” San asks, already prepared to leave the room, waltzing out.

Yeosang stops him with a hand held out across the doorway. San stares down at the limb acting as an obstacle.

“Where would he be?” Yeosang sing-songs, his arm unmoving and rock solid against San's chest. He can easily duck past, but Yeosang isn’t the type to adopt measures like this where it wasn’t necessary, so he swallows down the urge to flip the other on his back and decides to be the bigger person.

“Is he on the roof?”

Yeosang’s silence answers his question and San ducks under the arm held up by the other as a barrier.

San fully expects it when Yeosang twists his arms around, or at least attempts to. San spins around and leaps out of the way with both his morale and pride intact.

“Do that one more time and I’m going to kick you to the curb, Yeosang. I’m  _ not _ in the mood to  _ play _ ,” San warns, anger coursing quickly through his veins.

“You seem to be in the mood to play with Wooyoung’s feelings though.” Yeosang’s glare is intense as he clicks his jaw shut and grits his teeth, hands crossing together in front of his chest in that default position he always stood in.

“Me? I play with Wooyoung’s feelings? What are you even talking about?”

San feels like he should be able to read into Yeosang’s words because threatening bodily harm without a confrontation, especially from someone like Yeosang meant that he had fucked up. Sure, he had hurt Wooyoung today, but was it such a big deal that Yeosang thought a physical altercation was the answer?

“San, you are  _ always _ playing with his feelings!” Yeosang shouts, his deep voice booming in the empty corridor in the silence brought about by the late hours, most of the shadowhunters on patrol duty or on other jobs.

San wants to shrink under the tone, but he doesn’t, only letting the disappointment and cluelessness show on his face.

“This isn’t my place to tell you, and it never will be, but you need to open your eyes and look at everything around you, including him. You’ve wallowed too long in self pity that you’ve lost sight of the things you’re supposed to care about, the things that are driving you crazy. In the past few months, I’ve heard him say you were busy with something else, with someone else  _ too _ many times to count. You’re his best friend, his parabatai, you’re  _ supposed _ to know. Stop apologizing one day and pushing him away the next. He  _ deserves _ better than that.  _ You’re _ better than that.”

Yeosang lets out a heavy sigh and puts a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I’m tired and overworked to the bone. He’s my best friend. You are too. So is it wrong of me to want both of you to take care of each other like before without me intervening every two seconds? I want to sit down and hear him out, listen to his worries, but I  _ don’t _ have the time, San. He’s always had something special with you, so when he comes back to me to unload his worries, I know that something is wrong and it doesn’t help me at all. All I want you to do is  _ breathe _ and let yourself be you, San. Let it be.”

San blinks up at the ceiling, coughing against the ball of emotions clogging his chest.

Yeosang’s gaze is warm albeit a little tired when their eyes meet next.

“I’m sorry, Sangie,” he says, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, San. Don’t take these chances he gives you for granted. He has his limits too,” Yeosang reminds him gently.

When Yeosang pulls him close to his chest by his nape, San goes willingly into the embrace which was offered only rarely. It’s been a long time since he’d been hugged by someone who loved him without having to deal with the feedback from an eternal bond sending his brain to overdrive and making him conscious of every point of contact between their bodies, his chest threatening to burst from the feelings he’d bottled up for too long.

Yeosang is warm and solid against him, smelling like leather and sweat and his jasmine cologne. 

“Did he cry?” San asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Yeosang drags his hand up his back to card his fingers through his hair. “No, he was close to it though.”

San nods in relief.

“Please don’t avoid him, San. I know it gets hard sometimes, but don’t do this to him.”

If only Yeosang knew.

✸♉✸♉✸

Wooyoung’s standing on top of the thick concrete railing when San climbs to the roof. The strain of fear in his chest disappears as soon as it makes its presence known. It is a habit that has grown on them when days get tough, to stand on the ledge and remind themselves that life was only one slip of a feet away, to revel in the altitude and the strength of their will to not just give in to gravity’s pull.

It’s nearing midnight, black, blue and grey merged so imperceptibly in the sky that it looked like it was a scene plucked straight out of a painting. The city behind Wooyoung’s silhouette is lit up in an ocean of lights, white and golden star-like glow enveloping the area, among them a stray shade from the rainbow lighting up every now and then. Like this, San can almost pretend like Wooyoung is the brightest star in a galaxy leagues away from him, one he’s not supposed to touch because he looks like a forever San has always convinced himself he wouldn’t have. His head is tilted back, lilac hair suspended in obedience of gravity and the rules of the universe which have brought them together.

San lets himself stare for a moment before he stalks forward quietly, leaning with both his hands on the ledge and looking up. Up here, Wooyoung is a God, one San has pledged his allegiance, determination and devotion to. The rune on his neck stands out against his golden skin, almost pale in the moonlight and the starlit sky, the line of his throat so enticing San’s mouth dries. His jawline is sharp like the other side of him, the side San doesn’t see often but definitely knows not to provoke, pretty eyelashes fanning over his cheeks as his eyes move under his eyelids like he’s dreaming.

Wooyoung’s relaxed face breaks into a smile directed at the sky and he exhales deeply, knocking the air out of San’s lungs.

“Sannie,” he breathes out, voice gentle and husky, eyes still shut tightly. 

San hums in response. The call of his name is an invitation. Wooyoung won’t look down at the ground until San entwines their hands together. 

He wonders how long Wooyoung has stood here waiting for him, if it’s taken him minutes or hours.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, letting his one palm tighten on the ledge as he climbs up to the ledge and slowly waddles to his parabatai, letting their hands find each other’s.

“You can open your eyes,” San says encouragingly. Ever since they’d met, Wooyoung had always been scared of heights. This roof exercise was something San did with him on a night after they returned from a hunt where San’s hand had been the one thing stopping his parabatai from a fatal fall. The rune had tugged him in the direction of Wooyoung and San had followed to find Wooyoung teetering along the edge of the unfinished window, the demon stalking forward with its ugly brown skin. 

Two arrows, a sprint, one leap and San had broken the spell and tugged Wooyoung forward into his chest.

It has taken years to quell Wooyoung’s acrophobia, but leagues above the fear was Wooyoung’s trust in him. So, San has slowly but steadily taught him the things he needed to know, to not fear the fall, but to fear the fear.

Wooyoung’s eyes flutter open, long eyelashes making San go out of focus for a moment. He looks down, his hand in San’s tightening with the vestiges of a fear that will never go away completely.

It doesn’t necessarily have to, San thinks, since he doesn’t plan on leaving his parabatai’s side any time soon.

“Did you have dinner?” Wooyoung asks, still facing the city.

“No,” San says.

Wooyoung clicks his tongue, turning to look at him with disappointment and a little amusement. It’s not the stinging one from the afternoon, San notes.

San can’t put a finger on the look Wooyoung’s features transform into before he faces away and loosens his grip on his hand, jumping to the ground. San’s boots thump loudly as he follows him down. Instantly, he winces, because Wooyoung had just leaped off the ledge with cat-like grace and San had made it seem like he was Bigfoot taking a stroll on the roof.

“Did  _ you _ eat?” San asks, knowing the answer already, ignoring his brain’s habit of walking around in circles.

Wooyoung sighs in defeat. “Okay, you got me there.”

San laughs, feeling victorious. “Of course I did.”

“Don’t grow a big head, idiot. Your head’s already huge,” Wooyoung teases, his face lighting up in proportion to the speed San’s heart drops to his stomach in complete bewilderment.

“Hey!” he calls, offended. “My head is not that big,” San says, using his free hand to pat his head to check. “Is it?” He asks, suddenly self-conscious.

“You don’t sound very certain, buddy,” Wooyoung says, a playful grin on his face. San pouts, both his hands on his head in an attempt to measure the size of his head.

“By the Angel, you’re such a dork, Sannie,” Wooyoung says fondly, his hands patting down San’s hair. “Your head is fine. Best head I’ve ever seen.”

San gulps as his mind takes all the paths to the not-so-pure parts of his thoughts. Wooyoung needs to stop torturing him like this.

San already knew which side of hell he was going to end up on, he could do without the daily reminders.

“Spar with me,” Wooyoung says after he retracts his hands, gaze suddenly not so innocent, a glint present in the teasing way he flutters his eyelashes.

San figures that the apology can wait until they’re done since Wooyoung had asked him the same thing in the afternoon as well. With the paperwork and the night hunts, they’ve been pretty busy. Seonghwa had asked him to take it slow for a week at least after last week’s shitshow. It’s freeing to spar with Wooyoung and he’s also  _ so _ gone for his parabatai, it wasn’t even the slightest bit funny anymore.

San folds the sleeves of his t=shirt up, tucking them into the hemline on his shoulder, rolling his shoulders right after, preparing for the session by relaxing his muscles. 

San has barely nodded when Wooyoung ducks into a crouch and kicks his feet from underneath him, San landing on his back with a thud and a groan.

“Slow Sannie,” Wooyoung cooes, hovering over San with his back straight. San kicks himself to his feet, adrenaline already pumping as he reaches out to Wooyoung’s arms to twist him around and redeem himself. Wooyoung giggles, the bright sound going straight into his chest and covers San’s grip on one of his arms with one of his own, elbowing him in the gut with his other hand with enough force to have San bend over and wheezing for breath.

Wooyoung steps away, beckoning him with a finger, the iridescent purple on his nail making San’s head spin. San smirks as he charges head on at Wooyoung, tackling him to the ground, laughing when Wooyoung kicks his feet and whines at him as he tickles him.

“Tickles…” Wooyoung breathes, screeching when San holds him against him and runs his hand over his chest now that he has gained control of his mind. “Tickles aren’t… part of the rules, you little shit!” Wooyoung shrieks loudly enough that San thinks that even the guards patrolling around the city must have heard him.

“You’re so loud,” San says, laughing when Wooyoung squirms again. “Also, I wasn’t aware we had rules,” San adds playfully.

Wooyoung curls into a ball, forcing San to curve his body with him for access. There’s a moment when Wooyoung tenses and before San can pull away at the attack he _ knows _ Wooyoung has planned, his parabatai’s teeth sinks into his skin.

San shouts in pain even if he expects it, not protesting when Wooyoung twists around and sits on top of him with his knees on either side of San’s torso. San cradles his right hand to his chest.

“You’re a vampire!” San says, faking a look that says he is shocked.

Wooyoung giggles again, pressing his weight on San’s hips, sending a deluge of dirty thoughts through his brain, breath hitching the tiniest bit despite his impeccable self-control.

“No,” Wooyoung wags his finger in the air, “I am a  _ shadowhunter _ who doesn’t mind playing a little dirty to win against my  _ bratty  _ parabatai.”

San coughs at the sharp reminder of who he was to Wooyoung. He taps on Wooyoung’s waist with his hand to get him to move off of him. Wooyoung presses down on his chest firmly, hindering his movement.

“Not yet. You owe me an apology,” Wooyoung says. He leans forward, impossibly closer into San’s personal space, his breath heavy from the physical exertion.

“You have it,” San says, melting under Wooyoung’s honest gaze.

Wooyoung’s eyes roam over his face before he leans a little closer. If San breathes now, he knows he’ll smell lilac and everything Wooyoung is, and he doesn’t want to torment himself any more than he already is. There’s absolutely no reason for Wooyoung to lean in this close, but he does, and San’s weak, choosing to just stare at him with what he hopes is a passive expression. His chest rises and falls rapidly for a completely new reason with Wooyoung essentially pinning him to the ground. 

“Say sorry, San,” Wooyoung whispers, eyes sparkling and wet, San’s gaze choosing that moment to hook onto the enkeli earring adorning his parabatai’s ears.

San’s mind flashes back to the way he’d let him down none so gently in the corridor. Wooyoung wants a clear apology, not the bare bones of one. San will give him that.

“I’m sorry, Wooyoung,” San whispers back, letting his hand on Wooyoung’s waist tighten when he closes the distance between their faces by pressing his forehead to San’s and closes his eyes, his body completely folded over San’s.

San shuts his eyes for a minuscule second. He opens them to Wooyoung’s weight shifting off of him. He smiles down at him, one hand stretched towards him, palm facing the sky.

“Dinner?” Wooyoung suggests, a small smile still playing on his lips.

Sitting up, San lets their hands connect, nodding in agreement, trying to avoid the way he can hear his heart threatening to pound right out of his chest.

✸♉✸♉✸

“So you need my help on knowing about a bond I’ve only ever read about in shadowhunter books that I stole during the first great war of 1667?”

San chokes on the tea Seonghwa had brought for them at the warlock’s words. Trust the High Warlock of Gangnam to steal precious books in a war that nearly ended both the Shadow world and the Downworld.

San really should have known better. He sets the cup down with a scowl thrown at Wooyoung who had talked his ears off telling him that Seonghwa could help with the flare-up with the bond.

“I told you he wouldn’t know,” San mutters, sending a glare in Wooyoung’s direction.

“Did you have a better plan?” Wooyoung shoots back, leaning forward to place his cup of tea on the coffee table as well. He’s seated opposite San and it’s easier to see the slight irritation swimming on the surface.

San  _ didn’t _ , in fact, have a better plan.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait for his response, San didn’t have one anyway, as he turned to Seonghwa who was looking at them with rapt attention.

“Are you sure, Seonghwa?” Wooyoung asks, sounding a little desperate now.

San understands the sentiment. The Institute didn’t have many older shadowhunters who had learned in Idris, at least not anyone with the skills or knowledge to show for it, and it was virtually impossible to ask anyone about the bond misbehaving when they weren’t certain that whoever they asked for help would keep it a secret. 

Seonghwa definitely wasn’t on the list of people San would have asked for help, considering how he was skeptical about everyone, even his own kind, but Wooyoung had pointed out that Seonghwa had lived for over four centuries and probably had a lot more insight than they did. The possibility was too good to ignore.

The rune had heated up again twice in the past four days. One of those times was when they were on a hunt and San had had to grit through the pain as he fended off one of the Shinigami demon duo as it tried to claw at his face. Wooyoung had killed the other demon with his seraph blade before he threw San his weapon, San’s own bow having slipped away from his shoulder during the fight. They had run to each other right after, not caring about anything else as they unbuttoned their shirts to place their palms on each other’s chest to alleviate the pain, foreheads pressed on each other’s shoulders.

The pain wasn’t as bad as the first time, but any pain from the bond didn’t mean anything good. They were rightfully scared. The knowledge that they really couldn’t afford distractions whilst on a hunt and the realization that the bond acting up definitely wasn’t something that was a normal phenomenon was what had forced San to agree to Wooyoung’s plan of seeking Seonghwa’s help.

Even if he wasn’t too fond of the Downworlders, San trusted Wooyoung’s instincts and Wooyoung trusted Seonghwa. The warlock had proven countless times that he was loyal to his parabatai, even though San finds it quite the hard pill to swallow due to his parents’ constant rants which he had grown up listening to in Busan.

“Wooyoungie, I’ve never heard of anything like this happening to parabatai pairs before. Let me get my tarot deck first,” Seonghwa says, gentle and concerned. San rolls his eyes, but immediately finds a finger pointed in his direction. “Your condescension will not get you anywhere. You and I both know you trust me enough to come here and tell me about this and any day I would have played along to your whims and your utter brattiness, but the rune on your chest is the most precious there is, San. A little seriousness wouldn’t be completely unfounded.” Seonghwa’s smile is almost demonic now, his eyes flickering red and yellow multiple times over the course of his words. The scarlet lipstick coating his lips only makes him look even more like the embodiment of death and danger.

San holds his breath, unable to find a comeback to counter Seonghwa’s accusation and sharply worded rant.

Seonghwa claps his hands together in excitement like he’s flipped a switch and leaves the living room to grab his tarot decks. San stares at the space Seonghwa was previously standing in for a long moment before he snaps out of it as Wooyoung leans over the table and smacks him on the head.

San yelps loudly. “What the fuck was that for?”

Wooyoung looks at him sharply. “You  _ know _ what that was for. Can you please keep your cool for a few minutes, San? He’s trying to help us.”

San rolls his eyes again, folding his legs under him as he leans back on the couch, the velvet soft under the skin of his feet. Whatever reservations he had about Seonghwa, he had to give the warlock credit for his choices in decor. 

Seonghwa waltzes back into the living room, his dark red robe swishing behind him with his long strides, the gold-embroidered fabric making him look almost regal. Seonghwa settles down next to Wooyoung, making San frown at the proximity. Wooyoung, however, didn’t seem to notice or have a problem with Seonghwa’s thigh touching his.

San coughs loudly, Wooyoung raising an eyebrow. San licks his lips and closes his mouth, shrugging.

How the fuck was he supposed to tell Wooyoung that he was  _ jealous _ ?

Seonghwa, the bastard, who knew exactly what San felt for Wooyoung, has the audacity to hide a poorly concealed giggle into his fist. Wooyoung frowns at the warlock, tilting his head in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” Wooyoung asks, puzzled expression twisting his features.

Seonghwa merely waves away the question, his long fingers delicately running over the tarot cards he places flat in a straight line over the mahogany coffee table. The clink of metal as the elaborate rings on his hand randomly touch each other is pleasant in the silence which has started to bleed into the room.

The back of the decks have many familiar runes of the Shadow world on their backs, midnight blue and silver twisting and swirling around various figures and familiar runes. There are signs San doesn’t recognize from the Shadowhunter Codex or the Gray Book and he figures that they probably belonged to the Downworld.

“This deck. It’s not a normal tarot deck, is it?” San asks, not able to keep the curiosity to himself.

Seonghwa gives him a wide stretch of his crimson coated lips. He looks like a vampire who has just sunk his fangs into a mundane and drained them dry.

“Oh yes, talk dirty to me, shadowhunter,” Seonghwa says, moaning loudly, rolling his eyes back obscenely. San cringes, taken aback by the gesture when he knows better than to forget Seonghwa’s flirty disposition after years of forced camaraderie maintained solely for his parabatai’s sake. 

Wooyoung slaps the warlock on the thigh making the other snort as he schools his features back to something that is presentable in a friendly space.

“It isn’t a normal deck. It was a gift by someone very important to me. He made these himself,” Seonghwa says, a melancholic curve to his mouth even as he smiles at them.

San feels bad for letting curiosity get the best of himself. Seonghwa sounded like he really liked the person who’d given the deck to him. Now that he knows the story, San takes a closer look at the cards spread out in a neat line and he can see the small imperfections in the strokes which he assumes is a result of having been painted by hand.

Seonghwa’s features and his mannerisms have always been precise and sharp despite the flowy manner in which he carried himself and did things. Even his magic was an angry, potent crimson. San has seen Seonghwa so fond only ever for Wooyoung but this, his entire being softening for someone, this was new. Whoever it was that made the deck was a true artist, someone who had earned Seonghwa’s love and respect, someone who deserved the tender look in the warlock’s eyes. 

San can’t help the way his eyes immediately find Wooyoung.

“Are they enchanted?” Wooyoung asks just as San is about to ask the same question.

“They are. Enchanted by the blood of a warlock and a shadowhunter.”

Seonghwa’s words are wrought with an easy levity, but San can hear the echoes of a loss and he squints at the warlock, figuring that he owes the other some peace, deciding to not prod any further in regard to the person.

“Your blood?” San questions instead.

Seonghwa nods, “And a shadowhunter’s.”

San pales. 

Did Seonghwa just admit to killing a shadowhunter to enchant his tarot deck?

“Park, did you..” San trails off, horror dawning on him like a tidal wave.

Seonghwa laughs in his face. “It was  _ offered _ to me. I don’t have to kill for blood from your kind, San.”

San sees the way Wooyoung’s hand creeps over Seonghwa’s shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. It’s crazy how easily the iota of sympathy he had felt in the past few minutes die out as jealousy raises its head again. He tenses up, relaxing only when Wooyoung’s hand retreats back to his lap.

“That aside, let’s see what Apollo and Harpocrates can tell us about you. Let’s go with you first, Wooyoung. Pick three cards. San, close your eyes. I want you both to pick the cards without knowing what the other has picked.”

Seonghwa gestures at the cards. Wooyoung’s teeth sink into his plush bottom lip as he lets out a shaky sigh. San closes both his eyes in a gesture of reassurance and nods at his parabatai. Wooyoung rewards him with a warm smile.

San shuts his eyes, listening in on the drag of Wooyoung’s fingertips over the cards. He waits patiently for Seonghwa’s cue.

“Okay. Now you, San,” Seonghwa directs.

San hears Wooyoung gasp as he picks the last card. “What? Isn’t this how you do it?” San asks, confused.

Seonghwa turns to face Wooyoung and looks back at him. “Both of you picked the same cards, San.”

San doesn’t know if that’s a positive thing, and the indecipherable look on Seonghwa’s face doesn’t help at all, so he hums and leans back against the couch again.

“The Wheel of Fortune, Death and The Lovers,” Seonghwa says. Seonghwa sends him a knowing look as he picks up the third card.

“What does that mean?” Wooyoung asks wryly. San can feel Wooyoung’s anxiety through the bond and he wants to reach out, put a warm palm over his thigh and comfort him, but their seating positions do not allow for the gesture, so he stews in the whirlpool of emotions himself, aware that Wooyoung feels the same way.

“It can mean a lot of things,” Seonghwa hums thoughtfully. “You’re both obviously in sync. The deck is enchanted to not let probability get in the way while picking cards. Even then, both of you immediately picked the same card.”

San interrupts the warlock. “What if it’s just because we’re parabatai?”

“I’ve had the misfortune of reading cards for many parabatai warriors, San. Not a single pair has ever chosen the same cards.”

San nods, waving his hand to gesture the warlock to go on, content with the explanation.

“The Wheel of Fortune essentially symbolizes the ebb and flow of life. One will always find that the things in life constantly change, good turns to bad and vice versa and the cycle goes on. It stands for change but it is important to realize that whether the changes are positive or negative, they are not forever, for the wheel is always turning. The card of Death isn’t as ominous as it seems if I tie it in with the Wheel of Fortune. You’re going to turn over a leaf and invite a new phase in your life.”

“Change,” Wooyoung says, his eyes still focussed upon the cards.

Seonghwa turns to him and smiles even if he isn’t looking. “Yes, perfect, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa cooes, his adoration for Wooyoung making itself known in a way that didn’t usually show. 

“The card of Death seems to signify change rather than the more fatal meaning it usually represents. The card of the Lovers signals unrivalled cohesion and balance of forces, indicating complimentary energies. It represents a pair that works well together. I don’t know why it would come up again since you’re both parabatai anyway.”

There’s the sudden blooming of a long-dead hope, a spring that’s only his after years of living in a drought, a chance that the deck could have been trying to say something else, something San has dreamt so long about, a love rivalling Vega and Altair’s, a shot at holding Wooyoung at least once with the other aware of his heart and its intentions, but his gaze meets Wooyoung’s and the illusion is shattered as quickly as it is conceived.

“Well,” Seonghwa says, dragging out the syllable with a pointed look at San, one that screams at him to put himself back together if he didn’t want anyone else to know. “Now, time for the finale. Give me your right hand.”

Seonghwa stretches both his hands, palms facing up.

San doesn’t protest against why he needs to touch the warlock because suddenly he feels drained to the point of collapsing, shrinking under the weight of the silent suffocation of his feelings. Seonghwa’s palms are warm and soft, but it’s nothing like Wooyoung’s.

Seonghwa closes his eyes, his hands holding theirs, mumbling something that San figures is some ancient spell. The rune on his heart throbs a little and he cranes his neck to look at Wooyoung who is gritting his teeth. There’s a flash of crimson and tendrils of agitated red curling around them before the bond sends a sharp pain up his head.

“Park, stop!” He yells and then, he  _ screams  _ as agony sparks up his veins, watching Wooyoung’s mouth fall open as well, his ears ringing with a loud beep and nothing else.

Seonghwa retracts his hands from theirs quickly, the pain dying out as fast as it came. The warlock gets to his feet before he finds that he can’t and collapses back on the couch.

“The bond wants more,” Seonghwa says, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“What do you mean? More what?” Wooyoung asks, face flushed pink from the pain from before.

“I don’t know. You have angel blood in you. There’s only so much prodding I can do at a bond that’s made by the angels themselves when I am half-demon myself. I saw flashes of the heavenly fire and a voice whispering more. That’s it.”

“So something is wrong with the bond for sure then?” 

San expects the nod Seonghwa gives him.

“That’s just fantastic, isn’t it?” He mutters, feeling defeated. It seemed like they were being tested for the umpteenth time.

“I can ask around, look into some restricted libraries and try to find some answers for you,” Seonghwa offers, “I won’t reveal anything about the both of you, but it doesn’t seem quite right to sit on this when it’s an anomaly that seems to have a mind of its own.”

There is an unsaid vow in Seonghwa’s voice and it’s convincing enough that San doesn’t fight it when Wooyoung gives Seonghwa the permission to go ahead. It puts him a little at ease. 

San feels gratitude take root in him and he almost says it out loud too, and by the time it takes for the thought to be put into words, Seonghwa has already assumed his homme fatale persona with the cat-like grace and seduction oozing from every pore of his skin. 

Much to San’s exasperation, Seonghwa plops himself in Wooyoung’s lap like he owns it and bounces, his kohl-lined eyes peering into San’s soul and San decides that he doesn’t owe him gratitude, instead, he wants to have Seonghwa’s head on a pike.

Wooyoung’s laughs echo in the room as he huffs loudly and finally wraps his arms around Seonghwa’s waist, muttering about warlocks being centuries-old babies.

San looks at Seonghwa again and swears by the Angel that if he ever got the opportunity to travel in a time machine, he’d go right to that moment in the dark ages and stop the gremlin of a warlock from ever being born.

✸♉✸♉✸

San isn’t here of his own volition. He doesn’t want to remember how he’d ruined and signed away every single chance he had with Wooyoung in this very same ceremony hall on an eventful evening years ago. 

Today is the rune ceremony of the boy Wooyoung had helped with his sword skills during the last time they were benched. The boy is barely thirteen, but San can see the drive and passion inside him, so when Wooyoung had asked him to tag along, he’d agreed despite wanting to back out multiple times.

The same chandelier from years ago decorates the ceiling, polished to perfection and golden, the same one San had stared at for days after in the night when he wanted to turn back time and return to when having Wooyoung the way he wanted to was still a possibility in the cards.

Wooyoung’s arm around his waist shifts as he wiggles against San’s side to comfortably position his head on the dip in his collarbone before he decides against it and just hunches a little to place his head over his chest instead. San squeezes his shoulder in approval and a silent question.

“I’m comfy,” Wooyoung whispers. Wooyoung’s touch is delicate, but San clings back like he’s a dying branch threatening to get dragged by the current.

They’re standing at the extreme back of a three-row audience. The boy’s from an affluent shadowhunter family, one San isn’t familiar with. Such a big crowd isn’t usual, but it isn’t something that is frowned upon either.

The boy recites the oath in a determined voice, the Silent Brother using his stele to give the boy his first rune soon after. He’s a tough kid, San figures, because except for the slightest dig of his teeth on his bottom lip, there are no signs that he is in pain in his body language.

The ceremony is over before he registers it. Wooyoung frees his hold on him when the crowd begins to clear. He raises a finger in the air in a gesture for San to wait before he stalks over to the boy and gives him a hug. 

San can’t help the smile on his face.

San lifts his gaze from where it had been roving over the boy to see that the Silent Brother who’d officiated the ceremony was staring at him intently like a hawk with his stitched eyes. San shifts his feet, nervous on the other side of the attention of someone who was powerful enough to endure the pain of getting their own mouth sewn shut, of someone who decided that an eternity of measured silence was better for their future, most importantly, of someone who had the power to see past the defenses San had created.

Wooyoung pats the boy on his shoulder and gets up from where he’d crouched on one knee, walking back towards San. The boy and his mother, the last occupants of the hall other than themselves, leave in the time it takes for Wooyoung to reach San.

San grabs his wrist, aware that he is tugging Wooyoung along. Wooyoung sputters in confusion but San doesn’t get to explain as the sound of the robe of the Silent Brother resounds in the hall as he approaches them.

“Nephilim, your bond seeks more,” he says, his mouth unmoving, his deep voice resonating in their minds.

“More?” Wooyoung asks, acting like he’s clueless.

The Silent Brother is unresponsive as if he is listening and closely paying attention to something neither San or Wooyoung can hear.

“The bond refuses to clarify. It warns that it will bleed soon. It seeks your resilience.”

San has a million questions in the forefront of his brain but he doesn’t get to vocalize them as the Silent Brother walks away without any further clarifications.

“What do you think he meant, San?” Wooyoung asks and his voice is deceptively normal, but San can still hear the slight wobble to his words.

“I don’t know, Woo. I don’t know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kinda cliffhanger! Also, PINING SAN HOURS ARE OPEN!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Hongjoong’s entrance because he /will/ be making appearances in the chapters that follow along with having a spin-off with our lovable high warlock~ I typed the last 2k of this chapter with one hand because I spilled steaming hot coffee over my left hand, so a kudo or a comment will definitely motivate me more to go ahead with my one-handed adventures! (wink wink)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun)!
> 
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~

**Author's Note:**

> (disappears into a portal)
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments and leave kudos if you liked it!! (Wink wink)
> 
> PS: The line "Lex malla, lex nulla" is actually from the original books. San's dialogue about parabatai as he talks to Seonghwa has lines from the TV series Shadowhunters, an adaptation of the books~ All credit where it is due!
> 
> Shoutout to S and R who have been super patient with me as I continuously screamed at them in DMs!!
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun)!
> 
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~


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